What Price Murder

McCLOUD was coming out of the Hall of Justice, and Sheila Mayo was on her way in, and while he hadn’t been thinking about her particularly, having plenty other troubles on his mind, the sight of her through the glass of the big revolving door did something to his throat. All at once it became imperative that he speak to her, if only for a moment. He followed his segment of the door around and caught her just as she was about to enter an elevator. “Hello, Sheila.” She swung about, fine gray eyes lighting with pleasure. “Stephen, how nice!” She was very smart in tweeds and topcoat; smart, but quite business-like too. She was carrying a brown pigskin briefcase, one McCloud himself had given her when she had first opened her own office. Copper-brown hair curled down from beneath a jaunty little hat that was swagger without being silly.